Melted
by SLJones
Summary: Also known as: "The Five Times Gendry Made a Scene, and the One Time He Didn't." Basically, a 6 chapter long exploration into the relationship between Gendry and Arya, from their time on the King's Road to their future in Winterfell. Gendry POV.
1. The King's Road

**Melted**

1. The King's Road

_A Lady_.

Gendry still couldn't believe it himself. Even after she told him, even after all the pieces clicked together, he still couldn't reconcile the dirty little street urchin he had come to know with a _lady_.

But he had seen no hint of a lie in her grey eyes when she told him. Just some kind of determined vulnerability- a challenge almost. She was daring him to break her trust. He decided that he wouldn't.

He liked Arry. She was a reckless little spitfire, always saying what was on her mind and prone to bouts of violence. He wasn't sure how he felt about Lady Arya, though. He knew how to deal with Arry the orphan girl. He didn't have much experience dealing with ladies.

"_Gendry_!" Yoren's voice snapped him from his musings as he watched the men and boys bustle around him, readying to prepare camp. The sun was lowering in the sky, but it would be an hour or two still until darkness hit. "Go collect firewood for tonight. And take one of the little brats with you." He sounded weary, like a man on the edge of his patience. Ever since the Gold Cloaks came a couple days ago, Yoren's been harsher than usual with them.

"I'll go!" Arry exclaimed quickly. _Lady Stark,_ He chastised himself in his head.

"Don't take too long." Yoren responded gruffly, barely paying any attention to the girl as she scuttled up to Gendry's side.

He looked down at her suspiciously. While he did know her secret now, and he liked to consider them at least somewhat-friends, she was rarely tagging along with him willingly. The only time they spent together was out of circumstance or necessity. They both preferred solitude.

She was up to something, he was sure of it. The barely-suppressed fire that burned behind her eyes when she looked at him only confirmed that.

They walked together into the thick foliage, picking up sticks along the way. Arry was eerily quiet, and it was making Gendry nervous. It was normal for _him_ to be silent, as he wasn't exactly a man of many words, but there were days when he was sure that the Seven themselves couldn't get her to shut her damned mouth.

He heard a clattering noise behind him as Arry dropped her sticks rather suddenly. He turned around, only to see her brandishing her sword, pointing the little thing at his face. "What the-"

"_Who did you tell_?" She seethed, poking the blade against his chest threateningly. His own pile of firewood was abandoned to the ground so he could hold both his hands out, palms outturned innocently.

"What are you _talking_ about?" He asked disbelievingly, trying his hardest not to be intimidated by the vengeful little girl in front of him.

"I know you told someone, bastard." She spat. "Who was it? Lommy? Hot Pie? One of the men?" She swung the sword she called Needle and he had to lean back so his nose wasn't lopped off. The deadly slice was so close to his face that he could hear her weapon sing as it cut through the air he breathed.

"I didn't tell anyone you're a lady- I swear!" This didn't help, it seemed, but only served to provoke her further.

"I. Am. _Not_. A. _Lady_!" She punctuated each word with a slash at his throat and Gendry was backpedaling so fast that his foot got caught on a rock and he tripped, his arm reaching out for something to catch him. His fingers made contact with Arry's shoulder, but she wasn't strong enough, and instead of catching himself he sent them both sprawling on the ground.

He heard a yelp of surprise leave her mouth and he prayed to whatever God cared to listen that one of them wasn't skewered by Needle on the way down. They tumbled on the forest floor for a few feet before the momentum of the crash wore off and they both lay there, panting for breath.

Gendry jumped up immediately, preparing himself for another attack from the tiny hellion. It never came.

She lied still on the ground with her face scrunched up and her eyes closed, like she was in pain. "Arry?" Gendry asked with some hesitancy, taking a few steps forward, approaching her as he would a wild animal. "Are you alright?" He crouched down and touched her shoulder gently.

This seemed to snap her out of it, because she gasped and bolted upright, sitting up straight. "Look at what you did, idiot!" She shrugged his hand away, struggling to get up and obviously having trouble.

"Sit down." He ordered sternly, giving her shoulders a gentle but firm push, and then holding his hands there so she would stay still.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he stopped her before any sound could come out. "Shut up. Where does it hurt?" A dim part of his mind reminded him that he could probably be beheaded for speaking to her like this, but he was still too angry with her to care.

She glared at him, not answering. "You're a traitor. I don't want your help."

He sighed, taking his hands off her shoulders. "I'm not a traitor. And you may not want my help, but you need it."

"You _are_ a traitor!" She shouted back at him, ignoring his previous question entirely. "You're a traitor and a liar! You said you wouldn't tell anyone, but you _did_."

"Seven hells, Arya." He huffed, using her real name for once. "I didn't tell anyone! How many times do I have to explain that to you? What happened?" He asked, wondering what events lead to her attack.

"Why should I tell _you_?" Her voice was full of venom.

"Because I'm asking nicely." He shot back. "I could just leave you here, you know."

Her lip curled up in a snarl like the wolf-pup she was. "I was walking with some of the men. They were making a crass joke, something about cocks, but then one of them saw me and stopped. Said, 'Perhaps another time.'"

"So?" Gendry was unimpressed.

"_So_?" She repeated incredulously. "They never stopped _before_. They stopped because I'm a _girl_, because you _told them_ I'm a girl."

He couldn't help but snort at her weakly-supported accusation. "You're paranoid."

"Then why didn't they tell the joke?" The words were probably meant to come out sounding like a challenge, but all Gendry could hear in her voice was whiny petulance.

"I don't know!" He was getting exasperated with her. "Probably because you're so little."

"I am _not_ little."

He smirked. "Yes you are; you're tiny."

"Maybe you're just too big!" She argued, trying to get up again, only to make a noise that sounded a lot like a squeak when she put weight on her left foot. She gave up, sitting back down and crossing her arms with a humph.

"So it's your foot then? Or is it your leg?" He moved down so he was closer to the end of her body, waiting for her answer.

"Neither. My ankle." The fact that she was cooperating with him now had to be a good sign, or so he convinced himself.

"Alright, then. Let's have a look at it." He tried his hardest to sound professional and sure of himself, but to be honest he had no idea what he was doing. His skills in the healing arts weren't just pitiful; they were nonexistent.

He rolled up the pant leg of her breeches, careful not to touch her sensitive skin. After that he just kind of stared at it. There was no blood, so that was good. And no bones sticking out, also a positive. Does he touch it?

"You have to feel if it's broken, stupid." Arry interjected, sensing his hesitation.

"That's what I was about to do." He snapped.

He reached out his hands and pressed his fingers into the skin around her ankle, trying to feel for something out of place. His eyes flickered quickly to Arry's face, and he found her brow furrowed as if in deep concentration, biting her lip to muffle her noises of pain.

"Sorry," He breathed, and moved to finish his haphazard examination a little quicker, if only to spare her those few extra seconds of agony. "Nothing's broken, I don't think. Just a sprain." He concluded, pulling his hand away.

"Good." She nodded definitively. "It'll be better in a few days, then."

"I should think so." He slipped his hand under the crook of her knees and used his other to support her upper body as he stood up, holding her securely against his chest.

It seemed that this was a turn of events that Arry had not been expecting, because she gasped before batting her fists against him uselessly. "What are you doing, you idiot?"

"I'm carrying you back to camp." He said, as if the answer should be obvious. "Did you think you were going to walk?" He ignored her as she wriggled, leaning down to pick up Needle before stepping on.

"They'll know! They'll know I'm a girl."

"What, because I'm _carrying_ you?" He rolled his eyes.

"You wouldn't carry Lommy." She pointed out.

"I might." He said, but it was a lie. He wasn't sure why, but it was. Why would he carry her, and not think twice about it, but not carry one of the other little alley rats? He filed that away as something to think about later.

Arry wasn't fooled either. "Liar."

"Would you prefer to ride on my back?" He offered, wondering if that would placate her.

There was a beat of silence. "No." She said, not giving any explanation. He didn't care, just shrugged and continued walking. She didn't fight him for the rest of their short journey.

As they emerged from the thick foliage out to the camp, a few men cast them sideways glances, but no one seemed too shocked by their behavior. He was just setting Arry down by the stream when Yoren walked over. He did a double take at her lying on the ground, cradling her ankle in her hand like a bird with a broken wing.

"What happened, boy?" Yoren rounded on Gendry, looking mildly furious. "Did you do something to him?"

"No!" He exclaimed defensively. His mind rushed for an excuse. Damnit, he was always such a terrible liar. "It was… there was a…"

"Well? Spit it out, boy, I haven't got all day."

He looked to Arry for help, but she just looked up at him with her big grey eyes. "Wolf!" He said, the first thing that came to his mind. Then suddenly, the words were spilling out of his mouth, before he could even stop them. "It was a wolf. We were collecting firewood, and we saw it. We went to run away, and he tripped, sprained his ankle." Yoren's eyes widened as he listened to the fabricated story.

"Wolves? We can't be sleeping here with no fucking wolves." He turned and began to yell. "Conner! Go grab some swords and some men, we're going hunting."

As soon as he walked away, Arry wasted no time in telling Gendry exactly what she thought of him. "You're a bloody idiot."

"Well, what did you want me to say?" He challenged. "That you fell as you were attacking me because you thought I told everyone that you were really Lady Stark?"

"You could have just said I _fell_, stupid." She hissed at him. "But instead you went on some glorious rant about wolves, and now they're going to be out there all night, looking for something that doesn't exist."

She couldn't berate him further, though, because at that moment they were swarmed by a bunch of young boys who had just heard the news. They wanted to know- how big was the wolf? What color was it? Did it chase them? Did it growl?

Arry rolled her eyes, but thankfully played along, and together they spent the night entertaining and scaring their companions with stories of the wild wolf that prowled in the forest.

* * *

**A/N:** Hello everyone! This is my first story for this fandom, but I have devoured basically every single other fanfic on this site. I am hoping to make this a six chapter long short-story. Each chapter can be read as an individual one-shot or together as a whole; it's not very important. I'm going to try my very hardest to stay true to the books, but the interwoven plotlines can get so complex and confusing at times, you'll have to excuse any major indiscretions on my part. Anyway, enjoy!


	2. Harrenhal

2. Harrenhal

Gendry wasn't sure when it happened, exactly, but at some point, he and Arry became friends. Every spare minute she had, she spent at the forge, sitting on the ledge and watching him work. Her legs would dangle off the edge as she sat and ate her crusts of bread, piping in every once in a while to critique his sword-making skills or complain about Weese.

He never minded, just learned to tune her out as he did his work. But soon enough, he found himself craving her company, her mindless chatter becoming a reprieve from his otherwise dreary day, constantly under hawk-like watch from Lannister guards.

Sometimes she would hop up from her seat and grab one of his swords, swinging it around, doing her weird little dance-step thing that he had no name for. "What are you doing?" He asked one day, when curiosity got the better of him.

"The Water Dance." She replied without looking at him, not even the slightest hesitation or break in her smooth movements.

He rolled his eyes at her lack of elaboration, reaching up his hammer to swing at the hot steel on his anvil. "And… what's the 'Water Dance?'"

Finally, she stopped, casting him a careless glance over her shoulder as she went to put the sword back. "It's the Braavosi style of sword fighting. It requires balance, speed, agility and patience." She gave him a quick once-over. "You would be terrible at it."

For once, he realized the truth in her words and remained un-insulted. "You're probably right." He conceded. "But then again, I bet you couldn't smith if your life depended on it."

She stopped in her tracks, and Gendry realized too late that his words came out sounding far too much like a challenge. There was nothing Arry loved more than a challenge, and his words had done nothing but provide fodder for her fire.

She spun around, marching right up to him and holding out her hand impatiently. "Give it to me." She demanded, gesturing towards his hammer.

He clutched the thing like a possessive child. "Don't think that's the best idea, m'lady." That was stupid of him. The fire in her eyes burned brighter at the hated nickname.

She made a grab for it but he stepped back right in time. "It's quite heavy, Arry, and I don't want you to hurt yourself-"

"_Give it_, you big brute!" This time, when she lunged for it, she was too quick for him, and she managed to get her paws on the handle, making a move to tug it out of his grasp. He wouldn't let go though, a fact she soon discovered before she began scratching and biting at him like an angry kitten as they wrestled on the ground.

"Alright, alright!" He exclaimed when she bit him hard enough to draw a little bit of blood. "I'll show you how to do it. Just keep your teeth and nails where they belong, you bloody animal."

She grinned ferally at him, getting up and dusting her breeches off like nothing at all had happened. "Hammer." She demanded, sounding more like a Lady than he had ever heard her.

He muttered curses at her under his breath. "You have to actually get the sword out of the forge before you start banging away at it, m'lady." He said, prepared to walk her through the whole process with explicit, step-by-step instructions.

"So first you- Gods-_ Arya_!" He yelled her true name as she picked the hot sword right out of the forge with a pair of tongs, swinging it close enough to him it was just a hairsbreadth away from scalding his skin. She ignored him completely, dropping the hot material in the cold water and looking uncharacteristically delighted when it made a cool, hissing sound.

"That was fun. Now what?" She asked, putting one hand on her hip.

He was sputtering. "But- you… you weren't even supposed to do that! It was still heating, but you…" He trailed off, ending with a noise of discontent as he couldn't put his frustration into words.

"Oh," Her voice was mildly sheepish, but not in the least bit sorry.

"Yes, _oh_." He growled at her, grabbing the tongs from her hands.

"Can I try the hammer instead?" She sounded hopeful.

"No." He snapped at her, plucking the sword out of the water and placing it back into the fire. "Go away."

"Gods, you're worse than Sansa sometimes." Her murmurs were just loud enough for him to hear. "Please Gendry?"

"You won't listen to me." He grunted, not looking back at her, for he knew she could make herself look deceptively sweet if she wanted something from him. "You'll just mess up again."

"I won't! I promise. Just teach me, please?" He risked a glance down at her and sure enough, her big grey eyes were staring wide up at him, their fathomless depths peering into his soul.

_Damnit._

"Fine."

"Thank you!" She threw her arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze before letting go. "Alright." She straightened up, looking very serious. "What first?"

He tried his hardest not to look amused. "Well, you need to-"

"Wait,"

He sighed. "What is it _now,_ Arry?"

"I have a question."

"_Already_?" His voice grew louder as he made him angrier- and it took a lot to make Gendry Waters angry. He was a fairly calm and level-headed person, having been raised by the gentle hand of his mother before she passed away. But Arry never failed to get him riled up.

"More of a request, really." She _had_ to have known how irritated she was making him, but she didn't let it affect her in the slightest.

"Well, then, by all means m'lady- go ahead." He managed to spit out through gritted teeth.

"Can you just skip to the part with the hammer? That's my favorite." He huffed, picking the hammer up off the ground.

"It's heavy." He told her, putting it in her hands hesitantly. Even _with_ his warning, she wasn't prepared, and when he let go it fell to the ground with a crashing thump, nearly crushing her toes.

"Whoa there," He cautioned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She was sounded stubborn, determined not to require his help. She flexed her fingers, strengthening her grip on the hammer before leaning down. A grunt left her mouth as she straightened up, her arms nearly leaving their sockets as the hammer barely moved an inch off the ground before dropping back down again.

He couldn't help but smirk at her. Finally, something the great Arya Stark couldn't do that _he could_. He would savor this moment, for he wasn't sure it would come again.

It wasn't for lack of trying though- Arry must have tried to pick up the hammer ten times, growing more frustrated with herself with each passing failure. Finally, he took pity on her, getting up and taking the hammer himself, trying to make it look as effortless as possible as he swung it over his shoulder.

"I knew you couldn't do it." He couldn't hide the smugness from his voice.

"You're a prick." He laughed. It was always so funny to hear her curse.

"And you can't even pick up a hammer." She pushed him, but he just laughed harder, so she pushed him again, and again, until he finally fell on the ground. They rolled around in the dirt as he managed to grab hold of the scratching, clawing, biting ball of fire and hold her an arms-length away from him, suspended in the air.

She growled at him, and it was so unintimidating that he fell into another peal of laughter. He heard the crunch of boots by his side and he turned his head slightly, and upon seeing the feet of a Lannnister guard, he sobered up quickly. He jumped up immediately, pulling Arry with him, his fingers digging into her upper arm.

He instinctively stood in front of her, ready to shield her from whatever wrath the guard had in store for them.

"And what's this?" The guard asked, and Gendry was relieved to hear it was amusement and not malice that coated his voice. "Our blacksmith and our servant girl, both shirking their responsibilities to have a little tumble around in the dirt?"

Gendry merely inclined his head, keeping his gaze downward. Having been raised lowborn, he knew that the less he spoke, the better. However, _Lady Stark_ did not get these same hard-learned lessons as a child, so she was less inclined to hold her tongue.

"We weren't doing anything wrong, _Ser_." He could tell she was trying her hardest to keep the venom out of her tone, but some of it seeped through. "It was just a little fun."

The guard's eyes flickered to her bright ones, and his precarious good mood was instantly soured. "You be careful of how you talk to me, little one."

She did nothing but lift her chin, not in the slightest bit scared by his vague threat. "I'm Weese's serving maid. You can't do anything to me."

_Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._ Gendry chanted in his head at her, trying to make her listen.

The guard crouched down until he was at eye-level with the little wolf, reaching out a gloved hand to touch one of her short brown locks of hair. "I can't _kill_ you, perhaps, but I wouldn't say that I can't do _anything_." She had the good sense to shudder, at least.

"Enough." Gendry was just a surprised as anyone to hear the demand leave his mouth, to feel his hand that was still on Arry's arm give a sharp tug, pulling her completely behind him. The man stood up and faced him, an inch or two above Gendry's own height. The guard was quite enraged now- that was easy enough to catch.

"_You_, blacksmith, I can kill. No one will miss _you_ if I put your head on a spike." As he spoke, the guard's hand reached for the pommel of his sword, and Gendry wondered with a sick feeling if the Lannister man would behead him right here, in the middle of his forge, with Arry watching.

"Blackhurst!" The guard's head snapped back and Gendry allowed himself a second to breathe. "You're wanted in the stables."

The man named Blackhurst glanced back at him, sneering. "You're lucky, boy." He stated before swaggering off.

Gendry closed his eyes, muttering a quick prayer to the Seven. He could _feel_ Arry looking at him, watching him and waiting for his reaction. When his eyes flickered back open, he was not surprised to find himself captured in her grey gaze.

She seemed to find something in his stare when they made eye contact, because a look of guilt flashed across her face. "I'm sorry." At first, when he saw her hands come out, he thought she was attacking him, but when her arms wrapped around his torso in a most out-of-character hug, he didn't know what to do other than hug back.

"It's alright, Arry." He soothed, lightly petting her ruffly, short hair that was just beginning to grow out. "It's not your fault."

"I would miss you." She said suddenly, her head popping up without breaking their embrace.

"What?" He asked, unsure of what she was referring to.

"If they killed you. I would miss you, you know." Gendry didn't know if it was her bluntness that made him smile, or the fact that she said this with such a shining honesty in her eyes that he could have never doubted it.

"Thank you, m'lady. I feel simply treasured." His teasing was met with the return of her usual scowl, along with a punch for the 'm'lady' comment. When she stomped away all in a huff, Gendry was quite sure Arry would never say anything nice to him again.

* * *

**A/N:** So the way this story is turning out is that the first three chapters are full of fluff, then the last three are pretty angsty. So enjoy it while you can... I loved all the response I got on the first chapter, so keep it coming! Thanks for reading :)


	3. Acorn Hall

3. Acorn Hall

Gendry was beginning to realize that Arya Stark was a force to be reckoned with. He was convinced that she was stubborn enough to do anything she put her mind to. If she wanted an extra tart with supper, she would sneak into the kitchens and snatch one. If she wanted to free the Northmen from the dungeons, she would team up with a convicted murderer and stage an uprising. If she wanted to leave Harrenhal, she would walk up to the guard and slit his throat.

Yes, he was catching on quickly. Never place money against Arya Stark.

How he managed to make his way into her "pack" was still beyond him. He was a blacksmith, not a fighter. What use could he possibly serve to her on the road? Hot Pie's presence made a small amount of sense, for even though he was a coward and a bully, his cooking skills made the rabbits they caught a little easier to stomach.

Despite his inability to read her motives, Gendry was still thankful. For without her, he would still be hammering steel in Harrenhal, watched over day and night by the harsh guards. Or who knows- maybe the Gold Cloaks would have caught him back on the King's Road, and he would be rotting in the ground right now. Either way, he was indebted to her.

He thought, perhaps, that if he couldn't _fight_ for her, and he couldn't _cook_ for her, then the least he could do was protect her. Not that he would ever tell _Arya_ that, of course- the day she found out he thought her anything less than completely independent would be the day that she cut off one of his limbs.

When Hot Pie declared that he was staying at the inn to make bread, she shrugged it off as if it was nothing. Gendry couldn't help but notice, though, how she didn't talk for almost three straight days. Despite the fact that she had no great love for Hot Pie, he was still her friend in a strange, subtle way.

That was when Gendry learned that while she could do anything she wanted, Arya _wasn't_ invincible. So it was up to him to protect her.

This "Ned Dayne" character was making his job exceedingly difficult, however.

Before, he would never have to look very far if he wanted to know where she was. There were only a couple of places she went when she was not with him- mainly out to whack some trees with a practice sword she swiped off of one of the men. But now, it seemed, she had made a new friend.

Gendry wasn't bitter. He _wasn't_.

He could be with Arya whenever he wanted. He was her best friend- she even _told_ him so one day when they were sitting in the forge eating apples that were meant for the horses.

So as he stood about a stone-throw's away Arya and Ned, watching them laugh like old comrades, he decided that that rock-like thing that settled in the pit of his stomach was most definitely not jealousy. Because he has nothing to be jealous of.

"Arya!" He yelled out to her.

He did that now- called her Arya. Before, he had only liked to call her Arry. He wasn't sure why, but all the other names- Arya, Weasel, Nan, even m'lady- none of them ever stuck. She was Arry. But then Lady Smallwood had to go and dress her all up like a lady and suddenly _Arry_ didn't feel right anymore.

She looked up just in time to see him toss a practice sword in her direction. "C'mon, let's go spar." He loved the way her grey eyes lit up when he said this. She still beat him every time, but even _she_ admitted that he was making progress.

"Do you want to come, Ned?" Gendry's mood soured at her offer. He didn't really want the little lord watching over them, and he fought the urge to snap _no_, this was _their_ time.

But Gendry held his tongue as Ned shrugged, a small smile making its way onto his face. "I can't stay for long, but I think I would like to finally watch how you fight."

Arya smirked, her head held high as she passed Gendry, giving him a light whack on the arm with the wooden weapon. "Come, Bull. I'm sure Ned would like to see you get beaten by a girl." Her words were cruel, but there was a teasing lilt to her voice.

He rolled his eyes, his long strides catching up with her in a matter of seconds. The ground of the fighting ring was wet from the nearly ten consecutive days of rain they had gotten. It didn't seem to faze Arya, though, for she didn't even flinch as her feet sunk shin-deep in mud.

Ned perched on the fence that ran around the perimeter of the ring as Gendry took up a fighting stance, trying to look as nonchalant as Arya. She grinned wolfishly and went in for the first hit- just a tap really, on his arm. Had they been using real steel, it would have barely made a scratch on his skin.

The piece of training wood felt too light in his arms, almost as if he was sparring with a stick rather than a sword. He went for a light jab of his own, but she was far too quick, dodging out of the way and hitting him again, in the same place on his arm, a little harder this time.

She heard her laugh at his frustration, prancing out of the way of his sword again and again, her playful whacks and jabs becoming more vicious with each passing second. He would have bruises tomorrow, but he didn't mind. It was worth it- to see her so utterly delighted like this.

"You're going easy on me!" She announced with a particularly harsh blow to his side. "Don't be an idiot. You'll lose either way."

Gendry gritted his teeth. He wouldn't use _all_ of his brute strength against her, but perhaps he could afford to put a little more power into his swings. His next hit made contact, and she let out a small 'oomph.'

Any feelings of guilt or regret he could feel at the wince he caused disappeared as soon as he saw her vicious grin. "Finally. We might make a warrior out of you yet."

Their swords crashed together loudly as each of them struggled for dominance over the other, their feet slipping in the mud. "I doubt it, m'lady. I'll always be a blacksmith."

For once, Gendry managed to catch Arya off guard as he changed the direction of his weapon mid-swing, and the effect it had on her was so disorienting that she lost her footing, landing on her back in the muck. He beamed down at her in triumph.

He glanced back, hoping to see the face of the Dayne boy, but he was already gone. In his distraction, Arya shot her hand out, grabbing the sword still in his hand and pulling him down in the mud with her.

He grimaced at the feeling of the gooey, wet ground seeping into his clothes, dirtying him from head to toe. "What was that for?" He exclaimed, trying to get up, only to slip again on the slick ground.

She giggled, a noise he had never heard her make before. She always acted differently when they were sparring- the adrenaline made her happier, more spontaneous. "You were not nearly dirty enough. I fixed it for you."

He scowled, but it was good-natured. "Yes, thank you. I really wanted to spend three hours scrubbing all the shit off my body in the baths tonight."

Arya just smirked. "You needed it."

While the mud made him uncomfortable and cold, she seemed to be just fine with it. She was truly a wildling girl- more at home in the grime than in her dresses. Even covered completely in grunge, her eyes retained a radiant quality to them. It was as if they glowed.

Gendry never thought that grey was the color of fire, but he knew better now.

He had to admit that he wasn't entirely surprised when she threw the fistful of mud at his face. She had held it so temptingly in her hand, and Arya was never one to deny herself the pleasure of getting him all riled up. Just because he was prepared for it, though, didn't mean he had to like it.

"_Arya_!"

She held her hands up innocently, hiding her smile most unsuccessfully. "Fine." He scooped up two handfuls himself, pleased at the way her eyes widened in fright. "Just remember who started it, Lady Stark."

Gendry couldn't be held accountable for the wrestling match that took place then, not now that he had warned her beforehand. He pinned her easily, glad that there was still _something_ he could beat her at.

"I don't think the _Lord of Starfall_ would have this much fun with you, would he?" He teased, holding her wrists above her head so she couldn't escape him.

At his words, she froze, ceasing her wriggling and narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously instead. "What do you have against Ned?"

"What do you mean?" He responded, getting a nervous fluttery feeling in his stomach that felt a lot like when the kitchen maids caught him stealing tarts.

"He's been nothing but nice to you, but you're always so _hostile_ around him, and, and… let _go_ of me!" He was still holding onto her wrists, he realized as she kicked and thrashed underneath him.

He didn't let go, though- he just held her tighter. "Am I still your best friend, Arya?" He wasn't really sure where that came from, or even if it was the question he wanted to ask, but it was out there now.

"Of _course_ you are!" She snapped, not ceasing her struggles. "When you're not being a complete _idiot_, that is."

He laughed in relief, and something seemed to click in her mind as she suddenly stared up at him in bewilderment. "Is that why? Because you thought I was going to leave you for him?"

Gendry's eyes slid away from hers awkwardly and a heavy silence settled over them. When Arya finally spoke, it was in a soft tone he had never heard her use before.

"Ned Dayne is my friend, but you're _Gendry_. You're my pack. You've stuck with me from the very beginning even when you didn't have to, and when this is all over, you're going to come back to Winterfell with me. Robb will legitimize you, or you can be the blacksmith, or I'll make him find you a place on the court- whatever you want, it doesn't matter. But it's Gendry and Arya. _Not_ Lord Edric Dayne and Lady Arya Stark."

He swore his heart swelled to the size of a watermelon as he listened to her talk. At the same time, however, he couldn't tune out the little voice in his head that whispered: _Waters. Gendry Waters. You're just a bastard. And she's just a child. You're both naïve._

"Are you done being stupid, now?" And just like that, the moment was over. He was glad for it, almost, because at least he knew where they both stood when she was calling him stupid and he was rolling his eyes at her. It was simpler this way, and he liked that.

He released her from his grasp and stood, offering her a hand to help hoist her up. When she was upright, he couldn't help but laugh. They were both covered so thoroughly in mud that they were almost unrecognizable.

"I'd say we're both in sore need of a bath." He pointed out as she cringed.

"We're going to have to sneak in." She said, a mischievous smile already working its way onto her face as she plotted. "If Lady Smallwood sees me like this, I'll never be allowed outside again."

"I am at your command, m'lady." He replied, giving a very formal bow. He got a bit of a push for that, but she was too busy mapping out her plan to really make him suffer the consequences.

Soon, Gendry found himself wrapped up in an elaborate scheme that included secret entrances, birdcalls, and a disproportionate amount of sneaking. Had it just been Arya prowling around, trying to get to the baths without being noticed, she probably would have made it. The girl can be as silent as a mouse when she wants to be.

Gendry, on the other hand, was large, loud, and a little clumsy. They had made it no more than five steps into the humble castle before he bumped into a vase, knocking it over and causing it to shatter loudly on the stone floor.

Arya shot him a deathly glare, but then froze like a scared doe at the sound of a lady's slippers clicking towards them. With nowhere to hide, they halted, too shocked to move as Lady Smallwood rounded the corner and laid eyes on them.

The Lady screamed so loudly, you would have thought she had come across a dragon, and not merely two dirty children. Suddenly, people were popping up all around them, and Gendry swore that every knight and sellsword in a ten-mile radius had come running to her cry.

As he watched Lady Smallwood drag Arya down the hall, he knew. Whatever punishments Arya suffered at the hand of the Lady, she would make sure to inflict on him later, tenfold.

* * *

**A/N:** This is my favorite chapter. Not sure why, but it is. The end especially, I just like how it turned out. Anyway, thank you for all the alerts and favorites, and specifically the people who reviewed! They really motivate me to write :)


	4. The Brotherhood

4. The Brotherhood

Arya Stark was a little shit.

Gendry took another swig of ale from his mug as he sat, bitterly reflecting. He knew he should have talked to her. He knew he should have sat her down, explained his intentions, his reasoning behind becoming a knight.

But how could he, when he wasn't even sure himself? Would she understand? Would she even care? What would she say if he somehow managed to explain to her that he did it for _her_, for his best friend, for Arry? Would it have made a difference?

It didn't matter now. She was gone. She had ran away, even after he apologized, even after he _tried_- he had tried so damn _hard_ to make her understand him without saying the words he wanted to say.

And now look where it had gotten him. Before, he was just a stupid bastard boy with a girl. Now what is he?

Gendry slammed his cup down on the table, causing some of the liquid to slosh out onto the wood. He pushed his chair roughly back in place, his head slightly fuzzy as he took the stairs two at a time. He wanted out of the inn, in all its loud, drunk merriment. Didn't they know that Arya was _gone_?

What was there to be happy about anymore?

He collapsed on the bed, blowing air out of his mouth in a huff. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. But he couldn't, because sleep means dreams and dreams mean her.

How the hell was he supposed to forget her if she was all he saw the second he closed his eyes? He breathed out again, slowly this time, willing peaceful images, darkness for once instead of her face.

By sheer willpower, Gendry forced his mind to go blank. He recited the houses of Westeros in his head, trying to recall all the sigils, words, and lords. He was snoring soundly within a few minutes.

The dream was safe enough at first. He was back at King's Landing, back in the forge where he had learned his trade, serving under the master he had once thought cared for him.

His hammer hit the metal rhythmically, beating it flat, each hit matching the pulse of his blood through his veins. They were one and the same, him and his hammer. He would have been content if the dream had just gone on like this indefinitely, with him working in the forge and the sweat running down his back and his muscles straining.

But just like it had happened back then, his master called his name. "Gendry! Someone here to see you, boy."

_Unlike_ back then, however, this time, it wasn't Jon Arryn or even Eddard Stark that stood in front of him when he looked up. It was Arya.

His breath caught in his throat. She looked just like she had the day he first met her. Needle hung down by her side and her hair was chopped short, close to her head, with her grey eyes looking up at him imploringly. "Arry?" He whispered.

She didn't say anything, and he thought it was strange. She should be yelling at him by now, calling him an idiot and a stubborn bull, her fists finding new places to bruise on his skin.

"Arya?" He reached out, his fingers brushing her shoulder. There was a choking noise.

He looked down and saw redness seeping through the off-white of her shirt. He blinked, watching as the blood spread out and out and out until there was nothing but red. When he blinked again the tip of a sword appeared, skewering her through the middle like a pig for slaughter.

He was incapable of moving, incapable of doing anything but stare. She said nothing, didn't even scream. He thought it was appropriate- for a girl who was so loud and outspoken in life to be utterly silent during her death.

He looked down, seeing that he was covered in it too, now, her blood, even though he wasn't even touching her anymore. She was painting him red as well.

When he looked up again to her face, it wasn't Arya anymore. It was his mother, a face he vaguely remembered smiling over him as a young child and toddler. Then it was Lommy, then Yoren, then Jon Arryn, Lord Stark, and every single nameless face, every single faceless scream, every drop of blood spilled at Harrenhal and in this whole _fucking_ war.

People, dead people, burned, scarred, cut, ugly people. Faces flashed, too quickly to differentiate one from the other. They were all twisted into similar expressions of agony.

He blinked.

The faces settled, stopping finally at Arya. She opened her mouth to speak and Gendry leaned forward, desperate to hear her voice.

"_You left me."_

Three little words. It was a question, an accusation, a plead, and a lament all at once. Three little words, and he was spiraling.

He shot up out of the bed, panting, his chest rising and falling as he tried to reassess his surroundings. He looked down at himself, half-expecting to still be soaked through in her blood.

There was a pounding on the door, frantic and loud. He got up, still shaking a little bit, and walked over to open it.

Beric Dondarrion stood before him, looking more shaken than he had ever seen the usually stoic man. In his hand, he clutched a small piece of paper. "There has been news."

Dondarrion made no move to enter his room, but merely stood there looking equal parts afraid and uncomfortable. When he did not elaborate on his previous statement, Gendry raised his eyebrows expectantly. "News of what?"

The man stood there opening his mouth and closing it, like there were words he wanted- _needed_- to say, but his voice wasn't cooperating. Impatient, Gendry held out his hand. "Give me the message."

Beric looked away as he handed him the note, appearing ashamed at his inability to convey his thoughts. Gendry unfolded the crumpled paper that had been crushed in his leader's fist, flattening it out with the palm of his hand.

The paper was small and stained, with talon marks evident where the raven had clasped it in its claws. The writing was hurried and scratchy, as if the message was one of urgency.

He sighed internally, realizing that this would be harder than he anticipated. Arya had been teaching him to read before she left, and although he was good at it, many of these words were unfamiliar to him. Scanning down the message quickly, the first things he recognized were the names.

_Robb Stark…_

_Catelyn Stark…_

Gendry swallowed a gasp. There it was. Her name.

_Arya Stark._

He could pick out words here and there, but not enough to get the big picture, not enough to know the contents of the letter.

"What does it say?" He asked, struggling to keep his voice at a reasonable volume as he shook the piece of paper in front of Beric's face. "What does it say about Arya?"

Dondarrion made a pained noise. "There was a wedding at the Twins." His sounded raspy, like it physically hurt for him to say the words aloud. "They were betrayed. The King of the North was slain, along with most of his banner men."

His stomach twisted inside out. This was not the news he was expecting. "And Arya?" He spit out hurriedly. "What of Arya?"

Beric took another cleansing breath and Gendry found himself wishing that the man would just fucking _tell him_ already. "She was believed to be in attendance. Although they identified no remains… Arya is presumed dead."

_Dead_.

The word echoed in his head as he replayed the swiftly fading images from his dream. A sword in her stomach. Her shirt stained red. Her lips unmoving. The fire in her grey eyes, dwindling… then out in a puff of smoke.

Somewhere in his mind, he was aware of his legs moving on their own accord, of his friend behind him, calling out his name. There were other men as well, rushing around him, some sitting, some weeping, all suffering through different stages of grief.

He walked straight down to the stables, grateful that in his drunkenness; he had fallen asleep fully clothed. He heaved a saddle off the wall, throwing it on the first horse he saw and harnessing it with careless speed. Riding was another thing he had been trying to get the hang of.

"_Gendry_!" A hand grabbed his arm, jerking it back so hard he nearly fell over. His mind was cloudy with emotion, but he could distinctly identify the furious face of Dondorrion through his fog of pain. "And just where are you going?"

Beric was strong, but Gendry was stronger. He ripped his arm away, continuing on with readying the horse. "The Twins." He grunted, swinging a leg over the saddle.

He didn't wait for the other man's response, but merely rode off, not wanting to hear the admonishments he knew were coming. He rode swiftly, for what felt like a long time, but if it was minutes or hours; he wasn't sure. He heard voices in the background, not just Dondorrion's, but many voices now, all calling for him, cursing him.

But he was more focused on the patterned thumping of the horse's hooves against the hard, cold ground, each pound whispering in his head "_Your fault… your fault… your fault… your fault…"_

He had left her once. He had let her _leave him_ once. He would not let her do it again.

His horse was fast, but he would have to be an idiot to think he could outrun the whole Brotherhood. They were on him in seconds, their steeds circling around his own; causing him to halt to such an abrupt stop he was nearly thrown.

"Do you have a death wish?" Beric screamed at him, staying a few arms lengths away on his own mount.

Gendry just scowled. The men all glared at him, despising the fact that their own grieving was interrupted to go chase after the stupid, selfish blacksmith.

"She's gone, boy! Gone!"

"_No!" _The growl ripped from his throat so ferally that he surprised even himself.

"They're dead! They're all dead and you _can't_ save them."

He wouldn't believe that. "You can't stop me from leaving."

"I _can_ and I _will_." Beric responded dangerously, steering his horse close to him so he was right next to his ear, hissing into it. "Do you think this is what she would have wanted? Do you think she would have _wanted_ you to run off and kill yourself as well? She cared for you too, you know. She wouldn't have wished you dead any more than you wished it for her."

His use of the past tense was jarring for Gendry. Wished. Not wish. _Wished_.

Arya would never wish again. And now, neither would he.

"I'm the one who did it." Gendry whispered, all anger gone from his voice. "I'm the one who made her run away."

Beric's eyes flashed. "No, Gendry. This wasn't your fault. This was Walder _fucking_ Frey. He killed her, no one else. Don't forget that."

And then he left, taking the rest of the men with him. He turned his horse back to the inn and walked away, leaving Gendry alone with his thoughts.

He felt empty, hollow. It was quiet and dark around him, as if even nature had taken to grieving her passing. There was no sound but the soft breathing of his horse, and Gendry did nothing for a long time but sit there, unfeeling.

The horse whinnied, breaking his trance. He let out a shaking sigh, and then another, trying to ward off the swarm of incoming emotions for just a little bit longer. He took the reins in his hands, urging the horse on.

He moved slowly this time, too tired to worry about bandits or animals or any other dangers of the night. He was just a stupid bastard boy after all. And _now_… he wasn't even a stupid bastard boy with a girl.

Now, he was a stupid bastard boy with a useless title and a ghost that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Gendry would do anything to take it all back.

* * *

**A/N:** This is where the story gets a little more AU. The books don't follow Gendry that much, so this is a little bit speculative, sorry. Also, there isn't technically any _Arya_ in this chapter, but there will be in the next two, I promise. This is a really angsty chapter, too. I warned you it was coming! Anyway, thanks again for all the reviews, I am forever grateful.


	5. Winterfell

5. Winterfell

It took a long time, but at some point Gendry realized that Arya wasn't coming back to him. Her body had never been recovered from that horrible night (the "RedWedding," they were calling it) and the rumors began flying.

No, the Frey's didn't kill her- the Hound did. No, it wasn't the Hound; she starved trying to run away. No, she escaped and she was living somewhere in Westeros, in secret. No, she sailed across the Narrow Sea and made a life in the Free Cities.

They all said so many things; at first he wasn't sure what to believe.

But as time passed and the small nagging in the back of his mind grew stronger, louder, Gendry became surer. Arya Stark was alive. He wasn't sure why he was so positive, but he was. He would _know_ if she was dead. He would feel it.

She was alive.

Gendry's life, in the meantime, kept moving. Years passed, and he found a temporary home living in the Inn with Jeyne and the orphans, working as the smith. He had opportunities, with Jeyne, to make a life for himself, a family. But he couldn't. Jeyne was a nice girl, but she wasn't _Arya_.

Then that woman showed up, Brienne of Tarth. He remembered that he had saved her, once, and killed Biter in the process.

This time, the burly, unattractive woman came with two companions- a blonde man with only one hand and a pretty, black haired girl who held her head high and called herself Sansa Stark. That in and of itself was strange enough for him, but the real shock came when they tried to tell him he was Gendry _Baratheon_.

He didn't believe any of it. First of all, Sansa was nothing like Arya. She was demure and calculating, while Arya was dirty ruffian who said things without thinking. There was no way the two could be related.

_Then, _when he learned that the blonde man was Jaime Lannister, things made even less sense. What was a Lannister doing with a Stark anyway? Gendry remembered well enough the way Arya would whisper names to herself, every night. Granted, the Kingslayer wasn't on that list, but both his sister and his late nephew were.

And he was entirely unsure what to make of the strapping blonde woman who kept staring at him as if he had two heads. Sansa had told him one time that her staring was because of his resemblance to King Robert's brother, Renly Baratheon. It still made him uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, he found he couldn't rid himself of the three, and he learned quite quickly that you don't say no to Sansa Stark. They made an odd little pack- the hidden wolf, the grinning lion, the blonde bear, and the estranged stag. Though, no odder than he, Arya and Hot Pie, he supposed.

Before long, Lady Stark had shoved a war hammer in his hands and pushed them all off in the direction of Winterfell, along with the hordes of men she had managed to collect just by saying the name "Robb Stark." The siege did not last long, and the battle was easy, as the Bolton's hold on the castle was flimsy at best.

Sansa settled easily onto the throne, naming herself the Lady of Winterfell. Eventually, in another year or two, that title would change again, this time to be Queen of the North. Sansa ruled comfortably for a while Stannis Baratheon, Cersei Lannister and the Dragon Queen squabbled over the South. No one wanted the North anymore- not with Winter looming.

In the meantime, Starks who were thought to be long dead began crawling out of the woodworks. First it was Jon Snow, who was a Stark if Gendry had ever seen one, if not by name. The reunion between him and his sister was a hesitant one at first, but ended with Sansa breaking down into tears into her bastard brother's arms.

Next was the cripple boy, along with his big, oafish servant. His appearance caused a reaction of more immediate joy, as did the young wildling Stark that followed him.

Though no matter how many Starks walked through the doors to the throne room, Gendry always found himself disappointed. They were never _Arya._

Gendry spent much of his day with the Queen, who insisted that he be legitimized as quickly as possible so that she could appoint him to her counsel. When he snidely pointed out that perhaps he didn't _want_ to be on her counsel she spun around and snapped "Well _too bad_ because I'll have you anyway."

And that was the end of that.

Gendry despised the fakeness of everyone in the court, but soon found a friend in the Queen. Once you had gained her trust, Sansa slowly began to disassemble her carefully built walls. Behind that, he found, lay an altogether wonderful person.

They didn't have a lot in common, but Gendry regaled her with stories of Arya while Sansa sat and listened to him, enraptured. They laughed together and they had fun together, but as hard as Gendry tried, she was still never _Arya_.

Sansa seemed to miss her sister as much as Gendry did, if not more. She nearly drove herself insane with the search parties. A few months after the reappearance of Bran and Rickon, Sansa must have realized that Arya was not coming home on her own volition, and she took matters into her own hands instead.

She put a bounty on Arya's head, and offered a reward to the man who brought her sister back to Winterfell. For months, they sat in court, weeding through impersonator after impersonator- some good, some bad, others hopeless entirely, but all claiming to be the long-lost Arya Stark.

There was one girl who was rather talented. She was small with brown hair, and indeed bore a striking resemblance to the little wolf girl he once knew. The man who brought her said she had lost the ability to speak, which worked in the girl's favor as well, as the Queen tended to ask many probing questions.

Sansa was convinced, having been blinded by her own desperation. Gendry harbored his own doubts. The grey in the girl's eyes was the right color, but it lacked the fire. Jon rushed home as soon as he got the raven from Sansa, but Gendry watched the hope and excitement diminish in the brother's eyes as he looked upon the girl. He didn't out the girl as a fake, but Jon knew too, somehow. She wasn't _Arya_.

The impersonator ended up staying with them for about two months. Gendry wasn't entirely sure what happened, but one morning he walked into the solar and Sansa was crying, alone. He asked what was wrong and she said she missed her sister. This made him think that she probably knew all along, but wanted to see if she could pretend for a while.

The experiment didn't work. Arya was still gone. Sansa called off the searches, and stopped accepting claims from the many Arya Starks. And Gendry came to terms with the fact that she was never coming back.

"Bastard!" Gendry's head whipped backwards, recognizing the voice of the only person who still referred to him in such a derogatory term. "The Queen is waiting for you in the throne room." Jaime Lannister's smug grin was a familiar sight to him now.

At first, he was confused by the golden-haired lion, who had a tendency to make cruel comments and jests while grinning ear-to-ear. After a while though, Gendry realized that the man wasn't exactly _cruel_, but many years of ego petting had caused him to lack the normal social skills.

"Tell her that I'm busy." Gendry grunted, turning his attention back to the sword he was currently forging.

"I don't think Her Grace will take very kindly to being ignored."

He shrugged, not caring much for Sansa's neediness this particular day. There was a pause, and Jaime's voice took a more serious tone. "It appeared rather urgent."

Gendry sighed, stopping his work. "Did she say what it was?"

Jaime shook his head, eliciting another long sigh from him. "Alright." He conceded, throwing on a dirty tunic. The Queen could still force him to drop everything at a moment's whim, but they were past the point in their relationship where she could dictate what he was to wear.

He walked across the grounds, taking long, purposeful strides. The doors to the throne room were open, but two dozen somber eyes reached his as soon as his foot hit the polished marble. The court of the North was full of serious, unlaughing faces, wrinkled by the harsh winter winds. Still, Sansa insisted that they were better than the powdered fools and liars of the South.

Two men wearing Stark colors stood before the throne where Sansa sat, looking regal as usual. Between them, they restrained a small, lithe figure, pushed to her knees. It took him a minute, but Gendry could pick out the subtle feminine curves. Her head was covered with a burlap bag and her hands were bound as if she was a criminal. Gendry stood at the foot of the throne next to the men and their prisoner.

"Ser Gendry," Sansa greeted him from her seat, her mouth turning down in a slight frown at his disheveled appearance. "You came."

"Of course, Your Grace." There was only a little bit of sarcasm in his voice as he bowed, undetectable to anyone but Sansa, who knew him so well.

He could see her eye twitch a little bit and he reveled in her displeasure. "We require your expertise." She began to explain, gesturing towards the men and the girl. "Please retell your story for Ser Gendry, here."

One of the men cleared his throat, clearly nervous and confused. "We found this little chit here on one of our ships comin' from the Free Cities." He explained, giving the girl a small kick with his foot. She was unresponsive.

"She must've snuck onboard in Lorath or Braavos. We found her sleeping in one of the barrels. One of our men tried to grab'er, and she…" The man stopped, swallowed. "She ran him through with her sword. We caught her, but she fought us hard. O'Malley and I brought her here for a trial. We ain't done nothing wrong, Your Grace, I'd swear it-"

Sansa held a hand up, effectively cutting him off without a word. She rose from her throne, her long hair swinging as she stood. She stopped dying it a long time ago, but she refused to cut the black ends off, leaving her with an extremely unique color. The top of her head flamed Tully red, but as her hair fell down her back in ringlets it darkened to an ashy-black.

"The sword, if you please." She demanded, holding a delicate hand out. Shaking but obedient, the man pulled from his belt a long thin object wrapped in cloth, handing it to his queen.

She turned her back to him and slowly unwrapped the object. Her heels clicked on the floor as she approached Gendry. "Do you recognize this sword?" She asked quietly, carefully, holding out the weapon for him to inspect.

Gendry's mouth went dry as the familiar thin blade glinted under the light of the torches. He reached his fingers out to touch it, pulling back when he felt the sting of steel draw blood, as sharp as ever. "Yes," He croaked out. "I do."

Sansa studied him, her face a passive mask of indifference. "Have you…" He began to ask, his eyes slipping over to the small, bound figure kneeling before the throne, her head bowed. "Have you talked to the girl yet?"

She gave a sharp shake of her head. "I have not. I was waiting for your counsel." Her voice was but a whisper, low enough to keep their conversation private.

Gendry nodded. Sansa turned around, her slippers clicking as she ascended the few steps leading back to her seat.

The Queen cleared her throat, her voice large, echoing and commanding. "If you would…" She faltered, but recovered quickly, sounding even stronger than before. "If you would remove the cloth covering your prisoner's face. I wish to look into the eyes of this… perpetrator."

Gendry had to remember to breathe as the sailor untied the bag, clumsily and slowly. The seconds felt like minutes, days, months, years as a hope like he had never known blossomed in his chest. The burlap was off her face in a flash, and the men stepped back, leaving the girl and Gendry alone in the center of the room.

She was small, though slightly larger than he remembered. Her hair was dark brown and chin-length, hacked off with no concern for fashion. Her skin was tanned and rough looking, as if she had known hard work and hot sun every day of her life.

She didn't look up; she didn't stand; she didn't say anything; she didn't move. She remained there, on her knees with her head down and her eyes closed, her face shrouded by the curtain of dark hair that hung around her head.

"How did you come upon this sword, girl?" Sansa asked, holding Needle like it was made of glass.

The girl did not respond, and Gendry grew even more agitated. His stomach turned and his heart pounded and he thought he _knew_. He never felt like this for any of the other "Arya's". Only _his _Arya has ever done this to him.

"You should look up when your Queen is speaking to you!" Sansa snapped, growing frustrated.

The girl made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter, raising her head. She looked at Sansa finally, mirth evident on her face.

Her face was long, vulpine, and unknown to him, but her eyes were all too familiar. His dreams didn't do them justice. Fiery, passionate anger that sizzled, burned, blazed behind her thin veneer of icy grey, melting it more and more with each passing second.

Here she was, before him.

Home.

Gendry was shaking. The scene continued to play itself out before him, as Sansa had not yet reached his same realization. He struggled to pay attention.

"I serve no Queen." Arya said. Her voice had a bit of an accent, but whether it was real or not, Gendry was unsure.

"Pray tell, whom do you serve?" Sansa raised an eyebrow.

"Death."

"Did _Death_ give you this sword?"

"No. A girl gives the sword Death, not the other way around."

Sansa was getting angry at Arya's disrespect, and it was beginning to show on her face. "I do not wish to play games with you. What is your name?"

She dropped her eyes again and Gendry nearly bit his tongue off to stop himself from yelling at her to look at him. "A girl has no name."

"Interesting," Sansa got up and began to pace, making circles around the recalcitrant criminal. "If you have no name… than what am I to call you?"

Arya smiled mysteriously yet again. "You may call me Beth."

Sansa nodded, eyeing Arya as if she were prey. "Well _Beth_, I'm not sure if you know this, but this sword once belonged to a girl who _did_ have a name. A girl who was very important to me." She paused, trying to sense a reaction. Arya gave away nothing- she was all steady breathing and straight faces.

"Do you think you could help me find this girl, Beth?" Sansa's voice was deceptively cordial, but Gendry knew what the risk was if Arya refused her.

"No."

There was no crack in Sansa's pleasant, queenly expression. "Take her to the dungeons." Two members of the Queensguard moved forward without the slightest bit of hesitation, yanking Arya up by her arms and starting to drag her away.

"_Wait!_" The whispering of the crowd quieted in immediate shock as Gendry openly defied his queen. But he was far beyond caring about such meaningless things like courtesies. Sansa would just have to forgive him.

He approached Arya slowly, cautiously. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sansa give her guards a hesitant nod, and they dropped their prisoner. Arya watched him with suspicious eyes and Gendry had never been surer of anything in his life.

"You're from the Free Cities, aren't you, Beth?" He asked quietly, standing but a few feet away from her.

Arya's eyes shifted around the room like a caged animal. "Just so." Her voice was tight and nervous, as if she was sure that this was some sort of trap.

"And how long has it been since you were last in Westeros?"

Her eyes narrowed at the implication. "I have lived in Braavos my whole life."

Gendry smirked, glad to have caught her in a lie. "Would that your complexion was a bit darker, I might believe you. And your accent leaves much to be desired as well, I fear."

Arya said nothing in her own defense, merely glared at him. "Tell me, Beth," He began, taking another step closer to her. "Does the name _Joffrey_ mean anything to you?"

"No." Her response was so knee-jerk that it sounded rehearsed. Sansa was barely breathing behind him, and he knew he had little time to get to the point. As tolerant as she was, she had only so much patience.

"No?" He repeated, remaining calm. "Then perhaps Cersei rings a bell?"

"No." She breathed out yet again.

He smiled. That was fine. He would repeat her whole little death prayer again and again until she broke. "Ser Gregor? Dunsen? Polliver?"

The names had her shaking, looking away. He was right. The names haunted her, just as they haunted her years ago. She wouldn't look at him anymore, but he wouldn't have any of that. Closing the distance between them, he held her chin between his fingers, forcing her to stare straight into his eyes.

He wanted to be the first person she saw when recognition finally dawned.

"Chiswyck? Raff the Sweetling?" He pressed further.

"Stop." She ordered, trying to wrench her chin free, but failing.

"The Tickler? Weese? The Hound?" If it was anyone else, he might have felt bad about the way he was making her shudder and struggle. But this was Arya- the girl who had single-handedly caused him more pain and heartbreak than he had ever known.

"_Stop_ _it!_" She yelled it this time, beating his shoulder with the palm of her hand. He didn't care. Her hits were nothing but childlike swats against his chest.

"Ser Amory Lorch? Ser Ilyn? Ser Meryn?"

"_I said STOP!" _Her rage gave her strength, and her final push was enough to send him sprawling on the ground.

Sansa was at his side in an instant, helping him up. The guards were on Arya again, holding her down as she screamed and cursed and thrashed. They picked her up and the court was in mayhem and no one knew what was going on. Sansa was talking to him, asking him if he was alright, but he wasn't listening.

"Arya!" He shouted, surging to his feet. It was a terse syllable, but one that froze the tornado of energy. "That's your name, isn't it?" He said, staring at her intensely, trying to urge her on with his mind. "_Isn't it?_" The desperation was beginning to seep into his voice.

She said nothing, but looked close to tears.

"Gendry, stop this madness." Sansa said quietly at his side, her tone nervous.

"It's _her_, Your Grace." He responded, remembering to address her by her proper title. "I swear, by the old gods and the new. Let me prove it."

Sansa regarded him in a moment of nerve-wracking contemplation. "You may try." She conceded, looking at the small criminal as if seeing her in a new light.

Gendry took slow, noiseless steps this time, approaching the girl he knew to be Arya. He didn't make a noise, and the room became echoingly soundless. They were so close together now, and she didn't move away from him. He exhaled shakily, watching as his breath made a few strands of her hair flutter on her forehead.

She blinked, looking up at him with the grey eyes he was so enamored with. "It's alright, Arya." He soothed, his voice just as unsteady as his breathing. "You're safe now." His hand reached out, cupping her soft face in his large, calloused hand.

She let out a little sighing sound, closing her eyes and leaning into his caress. "You don't have to hide anymore." He told her, marveling at how soft her skin was, and how perfectly it fit into his unworthy hand.

"You don't have to be Beth anymore. Or Arry. Or Weasel, or Nan, or anybody else. And you don't have to be a Lady if you don't want to be. No one is going to make you. You just have to be Arya. Arya Stark." He could hear Sansa's short breaths behind him, beginning to recognize her sister again for the first time in years.

"We just want you to be home. We want you to be happy. Can you do that for us, Arya? Do you think you could be happy, here, with Sansa and Bran and Rickon? With Jon? With… me?" His voice caught in his throat and his thumb stroked her cheek a little more, catching the wetness of tears. She had been crying, tears streaming down her face silently.

"I missed you." He whispered his confession, close to tears himself.

Her eyes fluttered open, glistening and red and _alive_. Then she closed the final distance between them, wrapping her arms around him gently, pressing her face into his chest as he clutched her closer and closer. Never close enough.

Her body rocked with quiet sobs, sobs of a lost girl, a dead girl, a broken girl, a girl who was all alone for such a long time that she forgot what it was like to be loved.

"I missed you, too." Her voice was quivering and muffled, but he heard her with perfect clarity. "Gendry," She sighed, his name falling from her lips like a prayer. "Gendry."

He smiled for what felt like the first time in years. Finally, the last wolf had found her way home.

* * *

**A/N: **Ahhh I'm really nervous about this chapter because it's super AU. I had to figure out a way to get from Gendry in the Brotherhood to Gendry in Winterfell and this seemed like the simplest method. Sorry if anyone hates it. It's a really long chapter because it took me a really long time to basically explain how I got from point A to point B. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed it. As always, I love your reviews and support :)


	6. The Godswood

6. The Godswood

"Gendry? Do you have a minute?" Sansa stood outside the door to his forge, looking a little disdained at the state it was in.

Gendry lowered his hammer, blowing out a puff of air and wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Anything for my Queen." He mocked, gesturing towards the bench with his hand, offering her a seat.

She rolled her eyes at him and walked in, fanning herself lightly with her hand. "How can you stand it in here? It's blisteringly hot."

He shrugged. "And it's blisteringly cold out there. What's your point?"

She shot a withering glance at the dirty bench and opted to stand instead, no doubt to keep her expensive-looking dress as pristine as possible. "You know, you don't _have_ to smith anymore. You're a member of the royal court. It's rather unnecessary."

Gendry raised an eyebrow, shaking out a dusty shirt before pulling it over his head. "Are you here to tell me how to live my life, Your Grace?"

Sansa sighed quietly. "No, Gendry. I'm here to talk about my sister."

He deflated a little. "Oh." He had been expecting this talk for a while.

Ever since Arya came back, she had been distant. At first, Sansa hadn't minded, too overjoyed with having her sister back to care that she wasn't very talkative. But as the weeks passed and Arya continued to say but a few words a day, Sansa grew agitated.

"She worries me."

"Sansa…" Gendry began, running a hand through his short, cropped hair.

"Just listen to me." Sansa retorted, silencing him with a look. "I know you're in love with her. It doesn't bother me, even though you're a bastard and you probably don't deserve her. Seven, eight years ago I wouldn't have let you touch her with a ten-foot pole. But now… I consider you a very close friend. If you wish to court her, I will not stop you."

This was not the speech he was expecting. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a complete loss for words. He didn't deny it, though.

Sansa smirked. "Close your mouth. It's impolite to gape at queens. And I am not finished." Gendry did as he was told, snapping his jaw shut quickly.

She bit her lip, smoothing her dress down with her palms. "However… I confess I am concerned for my sister's wellbeing. As far as I know, she has yet to tell anyone where she's been all these years, and at times it seems like… like she isn't completely here."

"You're not exactly open with your past either." He pointed out, finding his voice again.

Sansa sighed, forgetting to care about her appearance and sitting down on his bench. "It's _different_, Gendry. I've had people to talk to over the years, I've moved on from my pain. Arya _hasn't_. She gets this look in her eyes, sometimes, as if she's looking at me but not _seeing_ me. And then she does that horrible _thing_ where she talks about herself in third person, like she isn't really there." Sansa shuddered.

He knew how she felt. He had noticed it too, and had to admit it was somewhat upsetting. "What does this have to do with me?" He asked.

Sansa looked down at her clasped hands, her eyes a bit watery. "She won't _talk_ to me. _Gods_, Gendry, she's right not to- look at me! I didn't even recognize her when she came back; you did. And she's _my_ sister!" Her tears glistened at the surface and Gendry fidgeted, unsure of how to handle the situation.

He didn't have to do much, it would seem, as Sansa composed herself in a quick, calming breath. "She'll talk to you. I know she will. She looks at you differently. Make her open up."

"Oh, I, uh…" He stuttered, looking away.

"It wasn't a suggestion. Jon will be here in a few days, and I want their reunion to be a bit more than her standing there like an uncomfortable tree as he throws himself at her feet. Arya is in the Godswood now. Go talk to her." Sansa didn't hesitate, leaving him with a pointed look and a swish of her gown.

Gendry stood in the forge stupidly for a few minutes, having been completely thrown off by the turn their conversation took. He was nothing if not obedient, however, as he found himself mindlessly grabbing a cloak and boots, following the Queen's orders unthinkingly.

He was halfway to the Godswood before he even realized what he was doing. He could hardly go back at this point, seeing as he had exerted so much effort to even get _this_ far. The snow reached his shins, and even that was a welcome change to the snows from a year or two ago, when the white dust piled up so high that some of the villagers couldn't even open their _doors_.

Gendry knew nothing but the warmth of King's Landing and a hot forge. He had a while still before he could become acclimated to the below-freezing temperatures of Winterfell.

Sansa insisted that the winter was dwindling, and that spring would be upon them soon, bringing with it a whole slew of new problems. However, any thoughts of an incoming spring were put on ice the minute her sister reentered her life.

He found Arya sitting before the great, twisted face of the Weirwood tree, polishing Needle with slow, steady care. She didn't look up as he approached and took a seat next to her, staring out at the black, glittering pool in front of him.

"Did Sansa send you?" Her voice was flat and emotionless, but Gendry thought it sounded a bit accusatory.

"Yes," He admitted, not bothering to lie to her. "But I came because I wanted to, not because she told me to."

Arya snorted humorlessly, still running the cloth up and down her already-spotless blade. There was a long, permeating silence and Gendry promised himself that he would not be the one to break it.

It was only a few minutes before she huffed, angrily setting the sword down in her lap, impatience getting the best of her. She looked up at him, finally, an annoyed eyebrow raised in question. "Well? Are you going to say something, or are you just going to sit there and fidget?"

Gendry smirked. "Am I bothering you, m'lady?"

Her eye twitched at the old, despised nickname. "Very much so, _Ser_."

The title was like a direct punch in his stomach, her poison-laced voice reminding him of his past indiscretions. He recalled her rage-filled words of so long ago, condemning him, calling him things like _traitor_ and _betrayer_. He never should have left her.

She seemed to realize the effect the name had on him, but she didn't look perversely satisfied or proud like she usually did after a good insult. Instead, she adopted an air of resignation, sad acceptance. She got up to leave, brushing a few flakes of snow off her breeches as she stood.

Gendry caught her wrist just in time, stopping her from taking another step away from him. "I was stupid back then." He confessed, prepping himself for a big, monumental speech. "I thought… I thought being knighted might _change _things for me. I was wrong. I let you down, and for that I am sorry." He closed his mouth, too unsure of himself to say much else. So much for monumental speeches.

There was so much more that he wanted to say, and they ranged from things like "Where were you?" to "I love you." But for now, he would stick with "I'm sorry."

She jerked her head towards him, impulsively yanking her hand out of his grasp. "You _left_ me." Her words sizzled and sparked in the air and he was reminded unfairly of his terrible dream so long ago, when she had spoken the same words to him.

"You left me alone. For what? So you could become some fake knight and run around giving sham trials to all the tart-snatchers that threatened the Riverlands? You're stupider than I thought."

"What was I supposed to do?" Gendry shot back, angered by her lack of understanding. "You cannot honestly be naïve enough to think that I would've just been able to walk with you, side by side, into your brother's army. You were a princess, Arya. You _are_ a princess. I was a bastard. I would've had my head chopped off before I even got a word out."

Arya punched his shoulder, nothing playful about it. Her punches hurt now, a lot more than they did when she was ten. "He was _my_ brother, damnit! Stop talking about him like you knew him, like you knew what he was going to do!" She yelled, as fuming as he's ever seen her.

"Robb wasn't _like_ other people- he was kind and thoughtful, and the second I told him of how you saved my life he would have accepted you all the same. You could be a Lannister for all he'd care; he'd love you just as I did."

Her jaw snapped shut and her eyes widened as she realized her exact words. Gendry stared.

They blinked at each other for a few seconds and his mouth was completely dry. He was prepared, this time, for her to try and run away. But instead of snatching up her wrist in his hand, he surged forward to his feet, wrapping his entire arm around her waist and spinning her around to face him.

In a few large strides, he had her back pressed against the massive Weirwood, his entire body flush with hers. Their faces were inches apart, and he could taste her cold breath as it puffed against his face in clouds of white air.

She was quiet, simply staring up at him with wide icy eyes. He was so close to her. He could feel her heart beat against his, count the light freckles on her nose.

He slowly brought his hand up to her face, thankful that in his hurry, he had forgotten gloves. Ever since he had held her the day she got back, it was all he could think about. Her skin, underneath his fingers… her, underneath him.

He cupped her cheek in his hand and she was inhumanly still as he ran his thumb across the skin below her eye.

It was soft. He imagined her lips would be softer.

Then her voice, quiet as a whisper. "What are you doing?" She said it tentatively, and it made him stop. Arya was never tentative.

He examined her, trying to read her true feelings beneath the cold shell she had wrapped herself up in over the years. "What does it look like I'm doing?" He questioned indecisively, running his thumb back and forth along her cheek again, reluctant to give up the sinful feeling of skin-to-skin contact.

He must have said the wrong thing, because something in her gaze hardened at his words. She pushed him savagely and, taken off-guard by her new strength, he actually staggered back a step or two.

She glared him down as if he was Joffrey himself. "Don't touch me." She seethed.

He shook his head, staring at her in disbelief. "What _happened_ to you, Arya?"

She didn't answer him, but the anger slowly began to melt off her face, settling into that same uninterested expression she constantly wore now. He wasn't so stupid that he couldn't catch on. This was her mask.

"You know," He began, taking a measured step or two back. "I used to think… that of you and Sansa, you were the stronger one. You were the fighter, the one who wouldn't let other people break her down. I used to think…" He stopped, laughed humorlessly.

He looked up, hoping to see anger, sadness, annoyance, frustration, _anything_ in her face. But she was frozen, like a statue, eyes fixated forward, unseeing.

He continued in bitter disappointment. "I used to think, _Sansa_- she cries almost every week, and she can't use a sword half as good as _Arya_ can. Sansa slept in a cozy bed in King's Landing while Arya and I slept on the ground on the King's Road and lived like slaves in Harrenhal. _Sansa_ is the weak one. Gods, was I wrong."

Finally, a reaction. It wasn't much, nothing but her eyes flickering away for a second. But it was enough for Gendry. It was all he needed to try again, one last time.

"Look at you, Arya. You can't even look at me." He said, gesturing at her with his hand from where he stood, less than a foot away. "What have they done to you?"

This time, when she glanced back up at him, her eyes glittered with unshed tears. "They didn't do anything. It was _me_. I chose my life, and I did a lot of very bad things." She admitted, her voice hoarse with emotion.

His hand twitched, and he just wanted to hold her again, but he wouldn't, not this time, not without her permission. "I don't care."

"You don't understand, Gendry, I did _terrible_ things-"

"I don't _care_." He emphasized, moving another inch closer without touching her. "I care that you're here with me, now. I don't care what you did when you were gone, if you were a thief or a killer or a whore or a traitor. It doesn't matter to me, do you understand?" He prompted, looking at her expectantly.

"I killed people. Innocent people. A lot of them." She whispered, chewing on her lip nervously. "I was angry, and so I joined the Faceless Men. They taught me to be other people, to be an assassin. I was supposed to forget about everyone. But I couldn't."

Gendry's chest felt like it was collapsing inside of itself, hearing the self-loathing and defeat in her voice. "It was war, Arya. We all killed people. What did you think I did when you left? Sat and twiddled my thumbs? I _looked for you_. I thought you were dead. I thought I was going to find you in pieces."

"I _am_ in pieces!" She yelled, screamed, rasped, her words echoing in the empty, unforgiving air.

"I was _there_, Gendry! I was there when Joffrey beheaded my father; I was there when they murdered my mother, and I was there when they put Grey Wind's head on Robb's shoulders. So go ahead. Tell me again how _weak_ I am." Her voice and his heart cracked simultaneously.

He stared at her, choking back the lump in his throat before speaking. There was a long silence before he found his voice again. "Arya." It was just her name, but it took so much effort for him to say it.

"Nothing I said was meant to hurt you… I just- I was angry. You make me so fucking angry sometimes, you know?" This wasn't what he was trying to say, so he swallowed, started over.

"You're the most important thing in my life, you were the only family I had for a long time, and it _kills _me to see you like this." Finally, something that sounded right. It did nothing to ease the ache in his chest, but he thinks it might be a step in the right direction.

She was quiet, her eyes fixated on a point over his shoulder, wavering slightly as she struggled to keep the tears at bay.

"Tell me how to help you." He took another step forward. "Tell me what to do Arya, because I don't know." He was begging, but he didn't care. He would fall to his knees before the Seven Kingdoms if it fixed her.

She looked at him this time, and something passed between them. "I don't know either, Gendry."

He looked down, then back up. He knew what _he_ wanted. What _she_ wanted, though, remained a mystery. She would always be a puzzle to him- one he gave up on trying to solve a long time ago.

_Fuck it_, he decided.

"May I touch you again, m'lady?"

She glanced at him, startled. After a moment, she nodded, hesitant. He took a few seconds to approach her again, giving her time to back out before trapping her in the same position as before.

For a minute, they merely stood there saying nothing, gazing into the wetness of each other's eyes. For a minute, Gendry wanted nothing more than to breathe her air, fill her senses, hold her in his arms until he made her forget every bad thing that had ever happened. He wanted to reignite the fire in her eyes.

He wanted to remind her: She was not broken. She was his.

His nose brushed hers and her eyes fluttered closed. His stayed open, intent on capturing every minute reaction, every intake of breath. He needed to make up for lost time, after all.

The first touch of lips was tormentingly light, not enough to taste, barely enough to feel. But it was enough to elicit the smallest of sighs from Arya's mouth, so Gendry did it again. This time, her sigh formed words. "Stop playing."

He gave a breathless laugh and brought his hand up, weaving his fingers through her short brown locks, his other hand being used to prop himself up against the tree. His knees were too weak at this point to stand without support.

"I love you, Arya Stark."

He didn't give her time to respond, merely leaned down pressed his lips against hers. She made it hard to breathe, but he pulled her closer, unable to get enough. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck and he moved his hand from the tree trunk, choosing instead to rest it on her waist, fingers digging into her skin.

She tilted her head back to take a breath and he took the opportunity to kiss his way down her jaw and neck. Her skin was like silk under his lips and he could stand forever under this tree, kissing every inch of her, impervious to the cold and wind.

"Gendry," She whispered, running her fingers through his short hair.

"Hm?" He hummed back, not really paying attention, focusing his mouth on the soft spot above her collarbone.

"What are we going to do?"

He looked up, finally, and they both waited quietly for a second as he caught his breath. "What do you mean?"

She tilted her head at him. "I mean _this_, us. What are we going to do about it? We're not children anymore, Gendry. And I'm not stupid; I know things will be expected of me."

"Stop." He ordered, covering her mouth with his palm before she could go any further. "_Nothing_ is going to be expected of you. Sansa just got you back; do you really think she's going to ship you off to some Lord a kingdom away? And I thought I made it clear before, you don't have to do _anything_ you don't want to."

He took a deep, cleansing breath, taking his shaking hand away from her mouth to rest again on her cheek, preparing himself for the second half of his confession. "That being said…" He cut himself off, looking at her flushed face one last time to give himself strength.

"I would very much like to marry you, Arya. I won't force you into such a union, but I thought you should know that it would make me very happy. I have made a good name for myself in your sister's court, and she legitimized me as well, I have her blessing, you don't have to worry about-"

She stopped his rambling abruptly by pressing her mouth back against his fervently. He gave up talking just as quickly, not caring much that he couldn't finish his argument. "You're… so… _stupid_…" She huffed at him between frantic kisses.

He laughed, his heart soaring out of his chest. "I'll take that as a yes, then?"

She pulled back to look at him, her eyes glittering with a joy he'd never seen before. "_Yes_, Gendry."

And just like that, Arya Stark was whole again.

* * *

**A/N:** Last chapter :(. I'm a little sentimental. I really wanted this chapter to be perfect, because I had a lot of build-up to it, so I ended up writing it once, then not liking it, then rewriting it, then deleting it again, and then finally making this. So I hope it lives up to your expectations.

Again, thank you all for the massive support I've received on this story. I'm forever grateful, and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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